


'Cause I Don't Feel like a Fighter Lately

by Pholo



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Juno and Peter talk about their trauma, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, lots of hugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 22:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18485587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: Peter can't seem to shake the memory of a seduction gone wrong. Juno struggles with decades-old trauma.Sometimes all you can do is talk and drink tea.





	'Cause I Don't Feel like a Fighter Lately

Peter doesn’t understand why she haunts him.

He closes his eyes and sees the details of her gown; feels the drag of her teeth against his throat—the convulsions around his cock as she came. He shudders out of bed—soothes his live-wire nerves with a cup of tea from Buddy’s cupboards. The heat from the water chases the film of filth from his lips. It’s not real—the grime—but he still feels it under his fingernails. He presses his hands around his cup until they sting. A reminder that he’s here, and he owns his body, and he can still burn. 

Buddy suspects something’s off. She catches him coiled around his cup of tea one night and tells him to talk to someone; whether her or another crew member she doesn't care.  

Peter considers the advice. Maybe some of his guilt and disgust will leave him with his story. But every time he teeters on the verge of a confession, he recalls the texture of the sheets and the skitter of her breath across his cheek and he has to bite back bile.

Peter knows, logically, that he shouldn’t be upset. It was only twenty minutes of sex— _consensual sex_ at that, as far as his partner was concerned. It’s not something he hasn’t done a thousand times before. He’s at peace with his mistake. And yet—he still wakes with a plea lodged at the back of his throat. His mind still turns to wool when he sees a woman on the street with her silhouette. He still retreats to his quarters some nights to curl up against the place where his mattress meets the corner of the room, breaths raspy where he forces air down a throat the size of a pinhole, mind lightyears away to where another body crowds his against a headboard.

 _It’s over_ , he tells himself. _It was nothing._ But his body betrays him every time. 

Peter manages to conceal the worst of the turmoil until he and Juno rekindle their relationship. Even Peter’s oldest masks crumble under his scrutiny. It becomes difficult to disguise the long stretches of dazed silence; the empty side of the bed at ungodly hours; the way Peter’s hackles rise around every 5’8” woman with a puffy coat and bright lipstick. He’s run out of excuses. Juno doesn’t pry, but Peter can tell he’s concerned. It’s only a matter of time before he asks him what’s wrong. Peter doesn’t know whether he’ll be able to keep the words under his tongue after so long.

He doesn’t expect Juno to talk before he does.

  

 

They’ve been together for three months when Peter wakes to a shout.

He surges up in bed, fingers flying under his pillow for a knife that isn’t there—but there are no alarm sounds; no burglars; no external threats beyond the rattle of the engine downstairs. Peter turns to find Juno with his hands planted over his face. He sits hunched over his lap on their bed. His back and shoulders hitch as he shudders for air. 

Peter nudges closer to Juno on the bed. He’s unsure whether touch would be welcome.

“Juno?” he prompts.

Juno doesn’t move. The cabin nightlights cast a hazy glow over his back. He’s still naked; neither of them had bothered to redress after sex. Peter watches Juno’s upper body shift as his lungs fill and deflate. His fingers curl a little tighter over his face. 

Peter doesn’t push. Slowly, he rests back against the bed. He curls towards Juno, a loose parenthesis, and waits for a change. 

A piece of equipment chirps across the room. Peter doesn’t turn. He can see some of the tension leave Juno’s body as he comes down. His fingers clench, then leave his face.

There’s a hiss. Juno curses. He untangles the sheets around his lap and shuffles back under the covers. 

Peter pats the space beside him. Juno seems to assess for a moment, then huddles closer. Peter tucks the covers back over their shoulders. He loops his arm around Juno’s back and props his chin atop his head.

As the sheets settle he asks, “Would you like to talk about it?”

It’s a formality at this point; Juno never does. But Juno makes a soft noise at the back of his throat and says,  

“It’s…you know. Oldtown.”

Peter tightens his grip around Juno’s back. Juno speaks at a gruff monotone: “If you think about it, it’s a miracle it only happened once. Everyone in Oldtown drank by the time they were ten; the Pour and Floor was like our clubhouse. With so many kids running around, it would’ve been easy pickings for perverts.” He pauses. “We tried to look after each other. But one night I went to the bathroom and there was someone there, and my friends didn’t notice how long I was gone. Still haven’t told Mick, actually.” 

Peter has wondered about Juno’s past—of course he has. In their time together he’s patched together a rough outline from the scraps Juno has tossed over his shoulder; a name here, an apartment there; a dance recital; an old munitions factory. He’s wondered how bad things were with Juno’s mother, or the ‘creeps on the street.’ He’s seen Juno's closed off body language—his panic at unexpected physical contact. Peter suspected this.

But he’d never considered how he’d react to the truth. He knows he’d hoped to provide comfort and reassurance.

The reality crushes him. For a moment Peter can’t move. Then his hands reach out even as his mind roils with radio fuzz. He clings to Juno as though to shield him from someone three decades prior, a million miles away. He presses a kiss to the crown of Juno’s head and wills away the sting behind his eyes. 

Juno’s hair tickles Peter’s neck. He has to strain to catch the next part:

“It’s been almost thirty years, but sometimes I can still feel his hand over my mouth.” His shoulders hitch under Peter’s hand. “I’m so fucking _tired_ , Peter.”

“Juno.” Peter flounders through the static. He knows what he _wants_ to ask: whether this man is still alive; whether Juno knows his name; whether he'd let Peter take a day trip to Mars with a plasma knife. But this doesn’t feel like the right time. He settles on, “What can I do?”

“I don’t know.” Juno sucks in a wet breath. “I don’t…I mean. Just.” He wraps an arm out from where Peter has him pinned to his chest, to grasp at Peter’s wing bone. Peter runs his hand up his neck—through Juno’s hair. “I really don’t know. I just hate that you’re going to look at me now and think about _this_.”

“No.” Because he’s sure about that at least. Peter releases Juno, only enough to make eye contact. “No. Juno, I’m looking at you right now. Do you know what I see?”

Juno’s searches Peter’s face. “Peter—”

“I see a detective-turned-thief. I see someone who I am privileged enough to call my _boyfriend_.” He pauses to let that last point sit. There’s a wet gleam to Juno’s eye; Peter lowers his voice to a murmur: “I see someone who would fight to the ends of the galaxy to protect the people he loves. I see—and I say this with authority, as someone who has traveled from one edge of the Milky Way to the other—the bravest, most beautiful, most _stubborn_ lady the universe has to offer.”

“Stop.” Juno turns his face against his pillow—but Peter can hear a wobbly smile under the snark. Peter snorts and nuzzles closer. He addresses the sleep-tousled mess of Juno’s hair since he can’t meet his eye: 

“I see someone who I can trust with my greatest secrets. I see someone who loves with his whole heart, and whom I love with all of mine.” 

“ _Stooooop_.”

“I’m serious, Juno. I’m not going to forget what you’ve trusted me with tonight. But when I look at you I don’t see the people who’ve hurt you, or how.” He takes Juno’s hand, and runs his thumb over Juno’s knuckles. The tendons are tight as Juno clutches back. “I see _you_.” 

For what feels like a long time Juno doesn’t move a muscle. Then he lifts his head from the pillow. Peter catches the barest glimpse of tears on his cheek before he turns his face against Peter’s neck. 

Perhaps the warm puff of Juno’s breath on his skin should remind him of that night seven months ago, but Peter’s mind never strays from the manta of _Juno, Juno, Juno_. He rearranges his boyfriend along his chest so he can clasp both arms around his back. He holds him as he pretends not to cry—as Peter wills back his own tears.

“I love you,” Peter says, as he cranes his neck to kiss Juno’s neck; his shoulder. In this moment he’s not sure he remembers how to say anything else. “I love you.”

 

 

Peter holds onto his pride until Lapetus.

Hally Ladelle owns many things: a Luxton shuttle; a hotel; a university library. Most relevant to the space squad (a term coined by Rita and tolerated by the rest of Buddy’s crew) is her data pad, which contains the contracts and accounting source documents of several top-tier, grossly corrupt government officials.

Peter doesn’t need to steal Ladelle’s pad. He’s here to sweep her off her feet—or at least away from her bar stool long enough for Juno to copy the keycard from her coat. The actual robbery will come later.

Juno gave Peter a look when he accepted the role of Ladelle’s seducer, like he was nervous but didn’t want to assume. It had only made Peter more sure of his decision. Hally Ladelle is 5’5” with wild hair and a penchant for patterned dress shirts. He needs to prove he can do this, to himself and to Juno, and not once think of another woman’s hands or lips or awful heat.

The first stage goes off without a hitch. Peter takes to his old games of subterfuge like a kingfisher to water. It’s one of Mag’s oldest tricks (rule number one, he would say): The quickest way to a person’s heart is through active listening. Invite a mark to speak at length about their passions and they’ll be putty in your hands within the half hour.

It’s easy to set Ladelle off. She’s an accountant, but one mention of her plane has her on a tirade about faulty altimeters and stuffy FAA regulations. Soon she’s told Peter about her stint with a man from air traffic control; a long vacation with her parents; the view of Saturn’s sunrise from 30,000 feet. For a good twenty minutes Peter nods and laughs and asks questions at all the right times. It helps that Ladelle’s downed two pink retrogrades from the bar; soon he has her mirroring his movements, unconsciously shifting to prop her elbow on the tabletop or waving a finger for emphasis. When he shrugs off his coat, so does she.

Perfect. Peter suggests a dance, and the two leave their bar stools—and their coats—for the dance floor. Juno now has a clear shot. Peter will give him a large window to be safe.

Fifteen minutes. If worse comes to worse Peter can always merge with the crowd, but he’d rather his exit appear natural to Ladelle. They need to avoid suspicion to prevent any security changes on her estate. Soon Buddy will make her scheduled call, and Peter will pick up the phone and pretend to be needed elsewhere.

As one song fades to another, Ladelle’s hand settles on Peter’s hip. He’s surprised when Ladelle requests a swing variation—everyone else has gone full freestyle—but he plays along for lack of an excuse. He pretends not to know the triple step. Ladelle coaches him through a sloppy tuck turn and a swing out. The mantra grounds Peter as she guides him to her chest: Six more minutes. Six more minutes. Six more minutes…

But suddenly Ladelle’s hand brushes Peter’s throat, and his supports buckle. Peter has a moment to curse his weakness before terror floods his body from the chest outward, and then his mind whites out. He retains his wits enough to stumble back from Ladelle’s outstretched fingers. Peter’s back hits the wall of bodies behind him. Someone swears as they spill their drink, and the noise grates against his eardrums like metal on china.

He needs to get away _now now now_. Peter knows how to disappear better than some people know how to breathe—but the age-old tactics won’t come. His brain won’t work. His legs won’t move. His lungs are too small. It’s too loud, and too bright, and his heart feels like a war drum against the paper walls of his chest; he can feel the reverberation from his throat to his stomach to his toes.

And then there’s a hand around his wrist, grip tight and calloused. He’s yanked forward. Peter nearly trips over his own feet to keep up with Ladelle. She moves through the throng of patrons with the sureness of a steamroller, not afraid to shove or elbow anyone stupid or drunk enough to stand between her, Peter and the door.

It doesn’t take long to cross the room. In a blur of ruddy cheeks and dress clothes Peter emerges from the crowd, dazed and shivery under the flare of the party lights. Ladelle escorts him to the front door; they pass the doorman, and outdoor air hits Peter like a benediction. They must change direction after that, but Peter can’t tell up from down. In a moment there’s cool metal under his hands. Ladelle guides him down onto a bench, then releases him.

Untethered, Peter bows forward. He brings a hand up to his chest and clutches at the fabric around his shirt collar. It loosens, and Peter feels the city wind cool the sweat on the back of his neck. He still puffs for air, but the knot has started to untwist around his heart, and he can see past the panic enough to recognize the pebbled courtyard outside the Cassini Lounge.

The breeze plays with the stray hairs of Ladelle’s bun. She hovers at Peter’s side, face full of worry, patterned shirt rumpled by their hasty escape.

Peter’s read Ladelle’s file; he’s under no delusions. She’s aligned with a criminal embassy. In her tenure she’s lined her pockets with the poor’s stolen wages. Still, Peter makes a mental note to plant the evidence on another player to ensure the leak doesn’t trace back to Ladelle’s pad. He feels he owes her that much after tonight’s fiasco. 

“I…apologize,” Peter forces out at last—and his voice sounds far too much like Peter Nureyev’s. Ladelle doesn’t seem to pick up on his slip. She frowns at him.

“Don’t apologize. Do you…can I get you a glass of water or something?”

Peter shakes his head. His lungs expand and deflate; small but precious gusts of air cycle through his body. He’s still taut like a spring, but at least he’s no longer on the verge of collapse.

Peter gulps down enough oxygen to say, “That's all right, but thank you. For your help.”

“No problem.” Ladelle looks him up and down. She gestures to his pocket. “I think your comms went off as we were leaving—?”

Peter grasps weakly at his pocket. He fishes out his comms and pretends to check the ‘missed call’ caller ID.

“A friend,” he tells Ladelle. This time he remembers to keep up the ruse; Harper Price speaks less formally than Peter. “I should really get back to them. They probably wanted to know when to pick me up tonight.”

“You’re gonna’ be okay?”

“Yeah.” He swallows. The words feel wrong on his tongue. Inhale, exhale. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Good.”

“I really did have fun tonight. I didn’t mean to leave like this.” The former statement belongs to Price; the latter to Peter.

Ladelle seems to pick up on his sincerity. “Harper, no one plans this kind of thing. It’s fine.”

Peter texts Buddy with his location. Ladelle leaves for a bathroom break and to grab their coats. The decorative string lights bloom to life over the courtyard as the sunset fades to dusk.

Night settles on Lapetus. Ladelle returns with their coats, and the thief and his mark wait together for Buddy’s (stolen) car to rumble down the street.

 

 

On the ride home, Peter decides not to tell Juno—but his resolve crumples the moment Juno emerges from his own getaway car. His eye meets Peter’s and a _look_ crosses his face, too fast for Peter to read.

It’s obvious he knows something’s wrong. Anyone could tell by the way he rushes over.

“Flint.” It’s his last name on the ship—but Peter hears ‘Nureyev’ all the same. Juno stops before him and Buddy. He shakes the dust from his collar. When Peter won’t look at him, he turns to his boss. “What happened?”

Buddy holds out her hand. “Scanner, please.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’ll get the scanner to Rita and you two can talk,” Buddy clarifies. Her tone leaves no room for argument. Juno’s eye flicks back to Nureyev’s face. He passes the scanner to Buddy. She closes her fingers around the device and turns towards the ship’s ramp. “Thank you.”

They follow her onboard. Juno doesn’t touch him, but he still manages to herd Peter to the left and out of Buddy’s shadow. They can report to the rest of the crew later. 

Peter’s steps are mechanical as he enters their bedroom, Juno at his heels. His legs feel like they belong to someone else where they lead him to the bed; he perches on the edge of the mattress to remove his shoes. Out of habit he lines them up at the foot of the bed. Then he moves to the far edge, where he can rest his back against the wall. He crosses his legs. 

Juno kicks off his own shoes. He crawls across the bed to plop down beside Peter, then shuffles close so their hips brush. He’s still wearing his trench coat.

Juno seems to consider his options. He tenses, as though to gather his courage, then plucks one hand from Peter’s lap. He cradles it to his chest, skimming the skin with a back and forth sweep of his thumb. 

Peter lets out a long, slow breath. He sags against the wall.

After a while, Juno clears his throat.

“…Remember how you said you wouldn’t think of me differently?”

Peter opens his mouth, meaning to reassure him. What comes out is a sob.

It shocks him. Juno has seen Peter’s red eyes and blotched cheeks after Miasma’s torture—no doubt spotted the gleam of unshed tears as he rushed to embrace Juno on the floor of her bunker. But Peter’s never let Juno see him _cry_ , let alone sob. The shame and surprise only makes the tears come faster. He ducks his head. 

“It was a job,” Peter chokes out. He removes his glasses with his free hand to scrub uselessly at his eyes and cheeks. “Just a simple seduction. I’d played the part a hundred times before on a hundred different planets. It should’ve been mindless. But for some reason I couldn’t—”

Peter breaks off, the words tangled around another sob. The pressure on Peter’s hand lifts, and somewhere to his right paper rustles against cardboard. Juno passes Peter the tissue box from their bedside table.

“Thank you, darling,” Peter manages, and feels utterly ridiculous. He presses a tissue to his eyes—blows his nose. He’s too far gone to be refined about the rest; he tosses the used tissues over the edge of the bed, to be collected after the tears have stopped. Juno refits his hand around Peter’s. His grip, tighter than before, lifts some of the pressure from Peter’s chest.

“I took her to bed,” Peter presses on, once he’s remembered how to speak past the tears. “It was fine until we undressed and then suddenly I knew I didn’t want it. I could’ve asked to stop but I didn’t. I just let her have her way with me and told myself it would be over soon. It had never mattered before, so I assumed it wouldn’t matter once we’d finished. But the feeling of her—” Peter gulps down a breath. “Of her lips, of her hands. She had me against the headboard when I entered her and—”

He can’t go on. Juno has threaded their fingers together; Peter clutches at him tight enough to sting. 

“When did this happen?” Juno murmurs.

Peter sniffs. “About eight months ago now. It would’ve been a few days before you met Buddy; I was supposed to be on that job but couldn’t bring myself to travel.” He plucks another tissue from the box. “I have no reason to be so affected. It was only twenty minutes of casual sex.”

“Peter…”

“It was my mistake; I chose to stay. I could have left at any time. It wasn’t as though I was under duress.”

“You were raped.” The words tear through Peter’s stomach like a bullet. Juno seems to realize what he’s said; his hand spasms around Peter’s. “Shit, Peter—fuck, I’m sorry—”

“It wasn’t—” Peter swallows back a wounded noise. “I gave her my consent. When we began.”

“Okay. But the way you’re talking about this—” Juno purses his lips, as though he meant to bite them but caught himself at the last second. “The words you’re using. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve said those things to myself? ’It was only a couple minutes. I could’ve gotten out of it if I’d fought harder. It was my fault. It happened a long time ago. I should be over it by now.’”

“It’s different.”

“How? You didn’t want to have sex. She should’ve noticed and stopped to check on you.” Juno swallows. “Just because some goon didn’t grab you from a dark alleyway doesn’t mean you weren’t—” 

He stops. The word fills the space between them—one Juno can’t bear to repeat. 

Juno’s eye meets Peters’. He squeezes Peter’s rigid fingers and speaks with conviction: “The point is, you’re allowed to be upset about this. This really happened to you. Someone hurt you. It does matter, and it’s fucked up, and you don’t have to just get over it. And I love you. I want to be here for you, however you need me to be.”

Peter doesn’t move. Juno reaches up with his free hand and combs a stray tear from his cheek. In their time together Juno has become more accustomed to displays of affection, but touches like these are still few and far between. Peter scrambles to memorize the brush of his fingertips.

The rush turns out to be unwarranted. Juno lets his touch linger. In tiny increments he maps out the line of Peter’s jaw.

There’s a hitch of metal. The ship rumbles beneath them. Vespa’s voice comes over their room’s tinny loudspeaker: “Crew, prepare for takeoff." 

Peter feels his shoulders droop. Juno looks him up and down, then lifts his hand from Peter’s face. He untangles their fingers. Peter physically aches for the loss of him—but within seconds there are arms around him, warm and secure, and a second heartbeat against Peter’s chest. Peter’s hands move without his permission. His fingers are like claws where they latch around the material on Juno’s back. Even congested like this, he can make out the smell of Juno’s trench coat; a combination of his old office space and desert air, and the pheromonic scent Juno carries on his skin. 

He tucks his face against Juno’s shoulder and relishes the smell of home.

The ship takes off. Peter wonders whether he feels better. With Juno wrapped around him, he knows he feels safe and loved. But a different kind of guilt claws at his chest. His skin feels warm but tainted. He’s ashamed to have fallen apart over what he still feels was a stupid mistake. 

It helps—Juno’s love and support. More than that: It means more to Peter than he could ever say. But it stings, too, somewhere deep at his core.

Because Juno shouldn’t have to deal with this. And Peter doesn’t want his pity. 

 _I see you._ It’s one thing to say the words and another entirely to believe them of your partner. In equal, desperate measure Peter does and does not want Juno to forget this conversation ever happened.

 _I just hate that you’re going to look at me now and think about this._  

“I’m sorry,” Juno murmurs. The ship rattles the contents of their desk drawers as they pass through Lapetus’ upper atmosphere. “I feel like I fucked this up. You opened up to me and I argued with you instead of listening.”

Peter feels the corner of his mouth perk up. “Juno. You did nothing wrong.” Juno’s hand comes to a rest on the back of his neck. “I only…wish I could believe you. I’d like to, very much.”

“Then we’ll get there.” Peter feels the rumble of his voice against his chest. “Maybe it’ll take a while, but we will.”

Peter fights back a fresh surge of tears. A while. He can’t survive another _while_ of nightmares and panic attacks and midnight tea parties. He pictures himself a year from now, still haunted by the press of a woman’s body, and feels physically sick.

“I don’t know what to do.” The words are barely audible where he presses them to the fabric of Juno’s trench coat. His voice cracks: “I don’t want to feel her on me anymore, Juno.” 

Juno’s grip turns vice-like around his shirt. Peter thinks he feels a slight tremble through the fabric. For a long time he doesn’t speak. Then he says, almost as though he doesn’t mean to, 

“I’m so sorry, Peter. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Peter can’t respond. He suspects he’s not supposed to. He feels Juno shake around him, and he turns his head to rest more comfortably on his shoulder. 

He closes his eyes and lets the hum of the engines fill his ears.

 

 

Two nights later, Peter shakes from sleep. In his usual fashion he extracts himself from Juno’s grasp—he’s a cuddler, much as he likes to deny the fact over breakfast. He has a leg off the edge of the bed when Juno mumbles,

“…Nureyev?”

Peter looks over his shoulder. From the mussed shadows of their bedcovers Juno reaches towards him. His fingers pinch the sleeve of his nightshirt. “Where’re you going?”

“The kitchen.” Peter clears his throat. “Thought I’d have some tea.”

“Mm. Want company?” 

“You need to sleep.”

Juno looks like he begs to differ. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Peter considers. It’s something he’s wished for on so many lonely nights at the kitchen table: the pleasure of Juno’s company. But he wasn’t about to rob his boyfriend of sleep over something as silly as a ‘bad lay.’

He looks at Juno now, rumbled and muzzy from sleep, and knows he’d tell Peter he has every right to be upset about that night. He knows he’d ask him to wake him on purpose next time.

So Peter stuffs down his doubts long enough to venture,

“…I’d like that very much.” 

Juno smiles, and he knows he’s made the right decision.

**Author's Note:**

> -Lies on floor- ya'll ever get stuck listening to [Amanda Palmer's "Bigger on the Inside"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LxQ6etd9grI) over and over again for three weeks? That song gives me major Juno vibes. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [Jitterbug Juno](https://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com/)! I'm new to the Penumbra fanfic scene and I'd love to find some folks to talk to.


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